Page 12 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Now

I talked until my throat went dry, until each word uttered felt like tiny match strikes along my windpipe. I’d exerted myself to get the start of our story out, and there was still so much Sparrow hadn’t heard yet.

Sparrow’s glare lost some of its hostility as I retold how Elliott came to be in our lives. He seemed less murderous now, although not by much.

“You believe me, don’t you?” It wasn’t much to believe yet, but it was a start.

“So maybe you knew him,” he sneered from the armchair. If Elliott were a delicate flower, Sparrow was the sharp end of a blade. “That still doesn’t mean you didn’t try to kill him.”

“I would never!” Panting, I rubbed the heel of my palm against my burning chest. Sparrow’s callous accusation made me forget about the pain I was still in and who held all the power. “I didn’t. I… didn’t.” It came out as a whimper.

“So what happened, then?”

“Not yet.” I had to pace myself. It would take time to convince him of our love, to convince him to give me another chance with my husband.

Only after Sparrow had the full picture would I tell him about the night that led to his return.

Otherwise, the truth wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t bring Elliott back.

“Continue,” he demanded.

“I can’t.” My voice was a thin rasp. “Water, p-please.”

I thought he would ignore my plea. His top lip curled as though he were upset that he’d have to do one more thing for me. He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a glass of water.

Sparrow hovered over me as I drank with difficulty, gaze narrowing on my face. Fear made me dizzy.

“Who hurt you?” he asked after I managed to choke down every drop. I would’ve laughed at the absurdity of his question if I weren’t so weak and afraid. But then I remembered the bruise I’d come here with. The one along the left side of my jaw. The only bruise he hadn’t given me.

“Self-inflicted,” I admitted, my voice in slightly better condition now.

“Why?”

A faint hint of arnica hit me out of nowhere but was gone by the time I took my next breath.

Then I remembered the sirens and the lullaby I’d hallucinated while drifting in and out of consciousness, and although the swelling of my nose had gone down, it was still a challenge to breathe. I couldn’t fully trust my senses.

“Why did you hurt yourself?” Sparrow pushed.

“Elliott’s aunt said you were the protector. I didn’t fully understand what that meant at the time. I just needed to get to you, needed a way in. I was desperate.” The fire in my throat might have been doused, but it was still a struggle to speak. I needed to rest. I needed more food and water.

“What else did Amelia tell you?” He said her name as if it tasted bad, and for once since arriving here, his anger seemed reserved for someone other than me.

“She said she met you once.”

His hand seemed to move unconsciously to the ring of keys at his waist, a touch of rage lighting his stare. I used to love having Elliott’s soft eyes on me. Sparrow’s gaze, though, was hard and cunning; apprehension ricocheted through me.

He composed himself again, dropping his hand to his side. “Did she tell you what the circumstances were for that meeting?” He strolled back to his chair, lowering onto it, his long, elegant fingers draping over the arms.

“No, she didn’t.”

“Of course not,” he said, tone full of contempt. His deep exhale gave the impression he was grateful she hadn’t.

“Will you tell me?”

“That’s not how this works. I’m not the one trying to stay alive.”

“Aren’t you, though?” I whispered. His stillness unnerved me, the flames a dangerous backdrop to the beautiful, yet frightening picture he made.

“That’s enough for one day,” he said tightly.

“I’m sorry,” I breathed, unable to bear the possibility that my words might have hurt him.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” Ironic, I supposed, since he was the one who put me in this bed to begin with.

But he didn’t let me die, hadn’t left me awake to deal with the worst of the physical pain, no matter his reasons.

I closed my eyes as he marched toward the bedroom door, letting exhaustion and heartbreak take over.

I didn’t expect him to speak again, and when he did, his voice was an octave lower, his words—although still cold—a fraction softer.

“How did your mother die?” Sparrow’s back was to me, his hand white-knuckling the doorframe.

“My stepfather killed her,” I whispered before he closed the door, locking me in again.

The clock on the wall was working when I woke up again. I slipped my glasses back on to read it. Eight o’clock. Whether a.m. or p.m. remained a mystery, as did the day of the week, but that didn’t stop me from quietly sobbing in gratitude.

The torture of being beaten and locked in a room didn’t compare to not knowing how much time had passed. That was a different type of prison. A different type of hell.

He’d fixed it. I warned my heart not to get ahead of itself.

Sparrow didn’t care about me. Changing the batteries must have been beneficial to him in some way.

Maybe he wanted to show me what I could earn if I cooperated.

Maybe he wanted to build me up only to shred me to pieces again. Still, I hoped.

The sedation was still working its way out of my system. That must be why I hadn’t heard him enter. Then again, Sparrow moved with eerie silence.

I swiped the wetness off my cheeks, clearing away the crusted tears from earlier.

My bladder screamed for release, and I refused to go in the bedpan.

Tossing the blanket back, I peered down at my bare legs.

One knee appeared more swollen than the other, and the bruising along my shins was more yellow than blue now.

I held my breath as I pushed myself upright.

“Fuck.” Spit struck my lips and chin as I panted through the agony. Maybe removing the IV had been too hasty. Without the pain meds, I felt everything and knew for certain a few ribs were fractured.

I stared at my legs again, terrified of what I had to do next. A sheen of sweat broke out along my forehead, and I told myself standing couldn’t be any worse than sitting up because my torso had received the brunt of Sparrow’s fury.

After several ragged breaths, I managed to get one leg off the bed. Pain vibrated through my whole body, and saliva flooded my mouth as I fought the urge to hurl. It took all the strength I didn’t have not to fall backward onto the stack of pillows. If I did, I wouldn’t make it up again.

“You’re the best part of me, Guelly. Both you and Q. Promise we’ll always be together?”

“I promise,” I whispered, my vision tunneling when I hauled my other leg off the bed.

“I love you.”

“I love you more,” I breathed as I pushed to my feet.

My hands flailed, searching the air for something to grab onto as my knees buckled.

I grabbed the IV pole, clutching it tightly before I fell backward anyway.

I lay sprawled on my back across the bed, my feet still planted on the floor.

Defeat weighed me down, my body giving out on me as I clung to memories for hope and strength.

“I can’t live without you, Guelly. I can’t live without either of you.”

“We c-can’t live without you either.” Pain spread to my fingertips.

“It’s just us here. Forever.”

It took an excruciating amount of time, but I eventually got to my feet again.

Groaning through the pain, I wrapped myself around one of the bedposts this time.

Sweat soaked through the gown, and I angrily tore the twisted material off me.

For once, I wished there weren’t a fire warming the room.

I stared at the thrashing curtains, longing to feel nothing but the breeze disturbing them against my overheated skin.

I shuffled my naked body over to it, pressing my palms onto the cold glass as I took in the aftermath of the storm. White coated the world, and in the distance, a small group of moose disappeared into the snow-covered woods.

It was dark out, but not quite as dark as night. I wondered if that meant it was morning. The clock showed it was almost nine. I’d struggled for nearly an hour to get out of bed.

I inched closer until my breath fogged the glass.

Out there somewhere, families gathered around the fireplace telling stories, or sat around a table eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

Kids played, lovers loved, and none of them knew I existed.

None of them knew I fought for my life here, fought for my own family.

The scene outside should’ve been beautiful; instead, it only highlighted how ugly things were inside here. I felt trapped, insignificant, unworthy of search and rescue.

Sticking close to the perimeter of the room, I used the armoire, the chest of drawers in the corner, and finally the wall to assist me on my journey to the bathroom. I braced myself for what I would see in the mirror before turning on the overhead light.

The dim glow cast a yellow tint over the bathroom, matching the color of my healing bruises. I shuffled over to the mirror, taking inventory of myself.

I lacked some of the muscle definition I had when I arrived here, but I hadn’t gotten as thin as I’d feared.

I’d never had much facial hair, but the hair on my head had grown a bit, flopping over my forehead and ears, curling loosely at the tips.

I pushed the dark strands back, leaning in to make out the scabbed-over cut above my brow.

That must have happened when his boot made contact there.

The swelling around the cut was minimal now.

The natural coloring of my skin made the more minor bruising along my face less pronounced, but the left side of my ribcage still held on to its purple hue. The area was tender to the touch, and anything deeper than shallow breathing hurt more than words could ever convey.

I inspected the gash on my index finger. The digit suffered the most damage of all of them. Sparrow had removed the shard of glass.

Dragging myself over to the toilet, I was relieved at having no pain during urination, and there were no traces of blood either. My kidneys were spared Sparrow’s wrath.

Swallowing four painkillers from the medicine cabinet, I sat on the edge of the tub, waiting for them to kick in before getting in the shower. I stood under the hot spray until the water ran cold; the heat both soothed and hurt my battered body.

Wrapping a towel from the shelf around my waist, I ambled back into the bedroom, almost tripping over myself to get to the plate of food on the nightstand.

I scarfed down the oatmeal and toast, practically pouring the two bottles of water down my throat afterward.

He’d made me breakfast. Did that mean it was morning?

Mentally, I couldn’t get back onto the bed. The thought of it felt like going backward, like succumbing to what he’d done to me. Instead, I dressed in the T-shirt and sweats he’d left next to the food. Both items were mine. So, Sparrow had gone through my things.

I worked my way over to the sitting area, tossing more logs into the fireplace before reclining on the couch. With nothing left to do, I welcomed sleep when it came again.

I knew I wasn’t alone even before opening my eyes.

There was a charge in the room whenever Sparrow was in it, one that I was more aware of now.

My eyes opened directly onto him. He was so close now.

All it would have taken was my moving to the very edge of my seat and reaching for him.

This close again, I was reminded of how striking he was.

When I lost my breath, it wasn’t from my injuries.

“Why are you here?” he asked in that dispassionate tone of his.

“I want him back.”

“You don’t deserve him.”

“I love him.”

“So you claim, yet here we are.”

My gaze moved to the scar along his hairline, unable to see it in the dark, even with the fire shedding light over us. “You’re right,” I said hoarsely.

Sparrow watched me intently before closing his eyes, the action lazy, seemingly unintentional.

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?” The pain he’d caused me hadn’t diminished my concern for him.

My first instinct would always be to care for him, to protect him.

Elliott didn’t function well without enough sleep.

Was it the same for Sparrow? Elliott didn’t sleep well unless we were by his side.

Was it the same for Sparrow? Even if on a subconscious level?

Sparrow’s eyes flicked open, a flash of anger drowning out the fatigue. “I’d worry about myself if I were you.”

“I’ll always worry about you,” I whispered. “Always.”

Sparrow wore an expression of unruffled calm, but his eyes would give him away every time. That spark of anger was still there, the blazing fire no match for it.

“Why did you fix the clock?” Was it because you’re sorry for what you did to me? Because Elliott still cares, forcing some part of you to care too? My heart ached to hear either of those reasons or some other variation of them.

“Who said it’s fixed?” Sparrow’s lips lifted into a cruel, mocking grin, making my pulse quicken. “Now, pick up where you left off, and leave nothing out.”